


OLD ACQUAINTANCE

by EchoThruTheWoods



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5783665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/pseuds/EchoThruTheWoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The WRO is going through a shake-up. So are two of its senior agents. This inspires a certain amount of swearing. You have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	OLD ACQUAINTANCE

**Author's Note:**

> Never say you won't write fanfic....I've read plenty of FF7 fic and enjoyed it, but no pairing ever really touched me. Until I came across the work of N_A_S_H_I and Crimson-Sun. There was all this beautiful art, and fascinating fiction, centering on Vincent Valentine and his old Turk partner, Veld Dragoon (Before Crisis), bringing these characters to brilliant life. It hit me like Meteor hit Midgar. My stories owe much to N_A_S_H_I and Crim for the inspiration, although there are some differences in my own headcanon. I hope readers enjoy them. 
> 
> And of course, the characters and places named in my stories belong to Square Enix, not me.

"Should old acquaintance be forgot  
And never thought upon  
The flames of love extinguished  
And fully past and gone  
Is thy sweet heart now grown so cold  
That loving breast of thine  
That thou can never once reflect  
On old lang syne"

(old song attributed mostly to Scots poet Robert Burns)  
Rough translation of old lang syne is “old times’ sake”

____________

The greatest soporific in human history, in Veld’s opinion, was a WRO staff meeting. Especially one that he wasn’t leading. He shouldn’t fault Reeve; the man was capable, sincere and dedicated. But, gods and demons, he did drone on.  


Late afternoon sun poured through the windows, turning the air syrupy gold, almost too thick to breathe. Veld covered a yawn with one hand. The only thing keeping him awake was the tingling feeling that someone was staring daggers at him.  


He rubbed the back of his neck, turning his head left and right, scanning the crowded room. Old instincts drew his gaze to the one corner of the room still in shadow, and the tall, lean figure holding up the wall.

Valentine. That woke him up.

Reeve wrapped up the meeting after handing out division assignments, pairing up field agents based on each person’s particular expertise. Most of the agents left at that point, some still talking shop on their way out the door, and the rest discussing where they were going for a beer. Veld envied the latter group, as Reeve indicated that certain individuals should stay. 

“I’d like the senior agents to coordinate activities in their sectors,” he said, passing out dossiers to said senior agents, including Veld. Veld flipped open his folder, scanning down the list of names and other information.

Up the table, someone huffed, “Who you calling ‘senior’?”

Reeve grinned. “Don’t take it personally, Miss Kisaragi.” 

Near the door, Valentine stirred. “I believe it’s intended as a compliment, Yuffie.”

“Vincent!” She popped up out of her seat. “When did you get back?”

Veld had wondered the same thing. Not that he cared. Or would ever ask. 

“This morning,” Valentine said, accepting a brief embrace from Yuffie. He turned to Reeve. “Sorry I missed most of the meeting.”

Oh, right, sure he was. Valentine waltzed in and out of people’s lives as he pleased.

“That’s no problem,” Reeve said. He glanced around the table, lighting on Veld. “Veld will fill you in.”

Wait, what?

“Vin, you’re not running off again, are you?” Yuffie said, plopping back into her chair.

Valentine hesitated a second before saying, “No, I’ll be around a while.”

“So,” Reeve went on, “since you’re here, Vincent, can we put you to work?”

Valentine inclined his head. “Please do.” 

“Let me know if you have a preference. Your skills would be appreciated anywhere.”

He did. And they were. Veld could attest to that.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” Valentine said, bland as milk.

“Actually,” said Reeve, “we could use you right here. Veld is security chief for the city. I know you’ve worked together before.”

Cool silence. Crickets chirped, figuratively.

Reeve wasn’t an idiot. “Or would you rather work in Wutai?” 

Yuffie looked up, beaming. “Yeah, Vinnie! C’mon, it’d be fun!”

Valentine shook his head. “No offense to Yuffie or her homeland, but I’d prefer to stay here after all. For now.”

“Ah. Well, then. You’re with Veld.”

Veld met Valentine’s eyes. They burned all the way to the back of Veld’s skull.

 

He left Valentine talking with Yuffie and Reeve. If he hurried, he could join the other agents in their after-hours pub crawl, because he craved a decent craft beer and Veld Dragoon did NOT drink alone like some loser, thank you very much.

He dropped the folder on his desk, grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, locked the office door. Turned, and found himself face to face with Vincent Valentine.

“Shit! Don’t sneak up on people, dammit!”

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“Then make some noise, like normal people.”

Valentine frowned. “What do you want me to do, sing?”

“Gods, no! I value my eardrums.”

“Whistle?”

“No! You know I hate that.”

“Well, give me a hint, Dragoon.”

Veld reached up and tapped the side of Valentine’s head. “Hints don’t penetrate solid rock.” He stepped around the man, shrugging on his coat. “Quittin’ time, spook. I’m out.”

Valentine’s voice followed him down the hall. “What about briefing me on the meeting, as Reeve asked?”

Shit. Reeve had asked, and Veld had not refused. He ground his teeth for a moment, sighed. Made a gesture with one hand, though not the one he was tempted to make. “Come on, then.”

He’d left the folder behind, but with a Turk-trained memory, he didn’t need them. Over drinks in the bar down the street from HQ, he gave Valentine the basics of the WRO’s re-org and Reeve’s commitment to keeping it going. He outlined the major problems and the steps being taken to put things to rights. Valentine stayed mostly silent, only asking the occasional insightful question. He’d remember everything, too. It was one of his more useful talents.

One of the many things they’d shared.

Veld shoved that thought aside and ordered another beer. Valentine was still working on his first one. As a Turk he’d never had much of a head for booze, but from what Veld recalled, he couldn’t even get a buzz anymore. Veld absolutely did not notice him licking the foam off his lips, nope, did not see that.

“One thing you haven’t touched on,” Valentine said. 

“Erm, touched…uh, what?” Veld cleared his throat. “What thing?”

“Finances.”

“Ah. You know about that, huh?”

“That Rufus has cut back severely on funding? Yes.”

“Yeah, rumor says the well’s running dry.” Veld rolled his eyes. “Don’t know if I believe it, but the end result is the same.”

“Before I left, Reeve talked about closing some gaps in the training and equipment budgets. I understood he was applying for a loan.”

“Oh, that. No, that fell through.”

“How…unfortunate.”

“Tell me about it.” Veld tilted his glass, watching the bubbles rise. “Money’s tight. Even so-called senior agents are getting stiffed.” He drank the rest of his beer. “Nah, that’s not fair to Reeve. He’s doing the best he can. And none of us are in it for the money.” 

“True.”

“Not that that would matter to some people. Say, people from old-money families.”

Valentine said nothing.

Damn, awkward silences were…awkward. “So. Where’ve you been for the past couple of months?”

“Junon. Family business.”

Now it was Veld’s turn to clam up. Some people had family, some…didn’t. People died, no matter how hard you tried to save them. You got used to it. It helped to have friends in his life. Except when they weren’t.

“And before that?”

Valentine shrugged. “Around.”

“Right. Just not around me.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?” Veld picked up his glass. It was empty. He thumped it down a little harder than strictly necessary. “You were avoiding me.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you fucking were. I saw you maybe twice in six weeks, and then you vanished.”

“I did not--”

“YOU DID.” Veld leveled a finger at him, pleased to see that it only shook a little. “You disappeared, Valentine. From my bed, from my apartment, from my LIFE. Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Veld….”

“You couldn’t say good-bye? Been nice, but we’re done? I’m bored and I’m moving on?”

Valentine’s eyes closed. “Veld, that’s not why. Could we please not do this here?”

“Oh, we’re not going to do it anywhere, spook. Reeve wants us to work together, fine, I can handle that. But that’s it. That’s all.”

“Fine!” Valentine looked down his long, elegant nose at him. “Gods, when did you get so self-absorbed?”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Prick.”

“Punk.”

“Old goat.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Veld stood, weary to his bones and sick of the whole conversation. He tossed a few coins onto the bar. “The drink’s on me.” His mouth twisted. “For old time’s sake.”

 

Valentine surprised him by actually showing up at HQ the following day. He was there, talking to Reeve, when Veld walked in. Veld checked the time, certain he’d lost an hour or two somewhere, but no, it was eight o’clock in the morning, and Valentine was out of bed, dressed and presumably functional.

Would wonders never cease? 

“Meeting,” Veld grunted on his way past. “My office.” He gathered the rest of his agents--all twelve of them, for the entire city, heaven help him--with Vincent “lucky-number” Valentine making thirteen.

Fourteen people cramming into the room made him long for his old Shinra-HQ conference room. Somebody would be in Valentine’s personal space whether he liked it or not, but Veld kept his smirk to himself. He handed out the paperwork he’d spent the evening on (all-night copy shops were a godsend), and while they skimmed through it, Veld downed a gulp of hot coffee from his thermos. Hell if he was going to drink that dishwater swill from the WRO cafeteria.

“Welcome to the new municipal security division of the WRO,” he said. “I’m the director. Everything you’ve heard about me is probably true. Now, Reeve has divided up the city into twelve portions. Sectors, if you will. Each of you will supervise one sector. Our purpose is to keep order here in the city, freeing up the regular troops to respond to crises elsewhere.”

“We’re city cops?” someone asked. Veld looked at the speaker, a tough-looking man in his mid-thirties with bright, sharp eyes.

“More of a specialized security force,” Veld replied. “The city’s our base of operations, at least for a while. Life’s a bit rough around here, as I’m sure you’re aware. There’s always someone looking to cause trouble, make a profit off of someone else’s misfortune, or take advantage of the relative, uh…chaos.” He glanced at Valentine for a reaction, and got a steady glare in return. Cold bastard.

“So we get to kick ass?” That was a woman, around Veld’s own age, with a straight military bearing and an air of contained energy.

“You do if I say you do. Otherwise no.” He caught her eyes, held them with his own. “Get this straight, all of you. This isn’t Shinra. Start throwing your weight around out there and I’ll shoot you myself. Twice, just to make sure.”

“So what’s our mission?”

“Think of it as a cross between community outreach and law enforcement. I know some people think that’s impossible, but that’s what Reeve wants and that’s what we’re damn well going to give him. You’re specialists, chosen for your experience, your skills and your steady nerves. Don’t let me down. Don’t let Reeve down.”

The man who’d spoken before scratched his head, looking over his printouts. “We’re doing this alone? One man--or woman--to a sector?”

Veld took another sip of his coffee. “Reeve’s got agents in training, to round out the troops, as it were. Once they’re ready, we’ll assign some to each of you. For now--this week-- just make your presence known, get a sense of what’s going on in your area. What people need, what needs looking into, and so on.” He reached out, tapped the back of a folder in someone’s hand. “Read up on what’s going on in the city, then go out and learn it first-hand.”

Someone in the back spoke up. “We’ll be armed, won’t we?”

“You will, but let’s remember the concept of ‘peacekeeper,’ shall we? One more thing. Keep up with the paperwork, but if I see anyone spending all day at a desk I’ll burn it in the front courtyard. Now scram.”

The agents broke up into smaller groups as they left his office, discussing their respective sectors, Veld’s expectations, and the all-important issue of which sector’s bars had the best Happy Hour. Veld sat on the edge of his desk, drinking coffee. Time elapsed: Twelve minutes.

That was how to run a meeting.

And right on cue, here was Valentine in his face again.

“You didn’t assign a sector to me,” he said.

“You’re special,” said Veld. “You get to head up Weapons and Training for this division.”

A red blink. Kind of reminded Veld of animal eyes, gleaming in the dark. So close, so familiar.

Never mind that, damn it.

He pulled a single folder out of the pile on his desk and slapped it up against Valentine’s chest, where a long, slender hand caught it. “Details. People, equipment, security badge and so on.”

“All right,” Valentine said. 

“Reeve’s got some new people coming in at nine. Get them outfitted and test their proficiency.”

“I’ll do that.”

“You know where the firing range is?”

“I’ll find it.”

“And the armory?”

“I assume it’s near the firing range.”

“Right.” Veld picked up his master folder and began to rearrange the papers inside. He’d have to see if laptops were in the budget. Or tablets, at least. “Off with you, then.”

Valentine hesitated. “Veld…”

“I’ve got work to do, spook. And so do you. Unless you’re planning to vanish again.”

The only answer was the door banging shut.

Veld had a quick stand-up lunch at a street vendor. He hadn’t been exaggerating about the senior agents’ pay. He didn’t hold grudges--well, not about money, anyway--and he fully supported what Reeve was trying to do. Someone had to put things back together, and he was glad to be part of it.

He still had to eat, though. And sleep, preferably not in a cardboard box. The apartment would have to go. He needed a place closer to HQ, and one that didn’t cost half of his monthly pay. What was left of his savings was tucked away for his old age.

Maybe he was a little delusional, if he could think such thoughts without irony. Elfe--no, Felicia, she’d always be Felicia to him--would have said he was getting senile. And maybe she’d have been right. His bank account wasn’t what it used to be.

Hell with it. He didn’t regret one gil spent to keep her alive, little though it had mattered in the end. 

While he ate, he read through the rental ads in the small community newspaper, and circled a few that sounded promising. He’d check them out after work.

Several of his people came in that afternoon with more questions. He walked through a couple of sectors with his agents, pointing out potential problems, meeting residents, and generally getting a feel for the area. He had no intention of spending all day at a desk, either.

On his way back to his office, he took a detour through the training wing. Just being thorough, of course. At the firing range, he stood behind the tempered, sound-proof glass, and watched a group of new agents learning to handle their guns. 

There was Valentine, correcting someone’s stance, eyes narrowed in concentration as the agent followed his lead and fired off a round. The shot hit the target, a human silhouette about Veld’s height, approximately in the right elbow. Valentine shook his head, drew his own gun, and put a bullet directly into the target’s heart. 

Five times.

Veld saluted the target. “Been there.”

 

Eight o’clock in the evening. Twelve hours since he’d arrived at work. He’d put in a full day and then some. He still hadn’t had dinner. Whose bright idea was it to check out apartments after work? 

Oh, right…

Tramping through progressively scruffier neighborhoods as full night came on wasn’t his idea of fun. He’d been to five, no, six different places tonight, each one unacceptable. 

Too expensive. Too cheap. Too noisy. Too many stairs; six decades and counting was tough on the joints. 

This was the last one on his list. He’d scribbled a question mark next to it in the newspaper, not even sure he was going to bother. This was an old sector. It was called First Street for a reason. The houses huddled, low and shabby, and a couple of the street lights were dark. This, in a city that hadn’t even existed that long. Why was he even here? 

Oh, yeah, because his wallet was getting thinner every day.

At least it didn’t smell of mako around here. More like boiled cabbage and fried squid. 

He sighed, and checked the address listed in the ad against the number on the house. This was it, a russet brick building, one of three that looked almost identical. A narrow alley ran alongside it, and all the inside lights were on, throwing warm golden squares out onto the sidewalk. 

Veld walked up to the door and raised a hand to knock just as it opened. 

“Eh, another one,” said the slightly decrepit individual in the hall. Veld squinted. 

“Mister..?”

“Tibo,” the man grunted.

“I’m here to look at the house,” Veld said. 

“No shit.” 

What a charmer.

“C’mon in. Got another fella here for a look-see.” The rumpled man glanced back over his shoulder, toward the interior of the house, where the “other fella” presumably waited, and called out, “You mind goin’ through the house at the same time as this guy?”

“No, of course not.”

Oh, fuck, he knew that voice…

Veld stepped around the…Landlord? Rental agent?…whatever, and into the front room of the house.

“Valentine, what the hell are you doing here?”

“The same thing you are. Looking for housing.”

Veld got a closer look at him. He wore black, as usual, but no cloak, no head scarf, and his hair was braided down his back. If Veld had passed him in the street, he’d have…well, passed him. Unless he’d seen him move. No one else had that predatory grace.

Tibo looked between the two of them, evidently sensing an incipient bidding war.

“Gotta know tonight,” he said. “Got three other people int’rested.”

“Sure you do,” Veld muttered, but he wasn’t in a position to argue. He needed to move house soon, and he’d had no luck so far. His empty stomach grumbled, his feet ached, and competing with Valentine for this grubby little house was the cap on the evening, wasn’t it?

He made Tibo show him the whole place, Valentine ghosting along in their wake. Despite himself, he was somewhat impressed. The place was clean, if drafty, came with kitchen appliances (old, probably second-hand, but serviceable) and was all on one floor, for which his knees would thank him if he took it. The plumbing worked, and there was a fireplace (the flue was clear: Veld checked); new locks on both the front and back doors, and shutters on the windows.

He couldn’t really find any major faults.

“How much?” he asked, ignoring Valentine hovering nearby.

“Twelve-hundred the month,” said Tibo.

“Twelve…! Are you nuts?”

“It’s market rate,” said the dried-up old thief. “Three other people looking at it. Four counting him,” he added with a nod in Valentine’s direction.

Well, that was that. Veld sighed. Vincent “old-money” Valentine wins again.

Except Valentine was shaking his head. 

“That’s outside my price range,” he said.

The old mummy frowned. “Not coming down on the rent. Got three people--”

“Yeah, yeah, you said.” Veld’s brain perked up, something bubbling to the surface.

“Thank you for your time,” said Valentine. He turned toward the door. 

Veld reached out and grabbed his arm as he went past. Valentine froze. His voice, low and cold, shivered up Veld’s spine like a winter wind. “Let go, Dragoon.”

“No, wait. Come here for a minute, spook.” He pulled. Maybe it was the grip of his prosthetic arm, maybe for once Valentine was curious enough not to argue, but he stepped aside with Veld. 

“What do you mean it’s outside your budget?” Veld kept his voice down, out of the range of Tibo’s stretching ears.

“Just what I said.” Valentine drew his arm from Veld’s hold, but stayed where he was.

Veld studied his face; not an unpleasant exercise. “I thought you were, not to put too fine a point on it, loaded. Family money.”

Silence. Maybe Veld had gone too far. Valentine’s expression didn’t change. But something in his body, some tension or perhaps confidence, slid away, taking with it the rough edges that always frayed Veld’s best intentions. The room’s bright light washed out his face, leaving him flat and worn as an old black-and-white photo.

“It’s gone,” he said softly.

Veld blinked. “What, all of it?”

“My portion, yes.”

“What happened?”

Valentine looked down. “I died.”

“But you--came back.”

“I was effectively dead for thirty years, Veld. For all intents and purposes, my branch of the family came to an end. Thirty years is more than enough time for the legal entanglements of unclaimed funds to work themselves out. The Valentine line in this part of the world no longer exists.”

Veld shook his head, glancing at Tibo who was trying to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping. From the sour expression on his face, he wasn’t hearing more than one word in ten.

“But you’re still walking around! You are alive, after a fashion. What more proof do they want?” 

“It’s too late for that. The money was dispersed years ago. I was declared legally dead, and everything left of my inheritance was claimed by what remains of my father’s family. My mother’s kin made no objection. And before you ask, no, she can’t vouch for me. She’s gone. There is no one who can say without doubt, yes, this is Grimoire Valentine’s son.”

“Well, shit. That sucks.”

Hardly a profound realization. Valentine kept staring at the floor. “It’s not the money. I can get by. It’s losing the family connection that hurts. There’s nothing left for me in Junon. So I’m staying here.”

Veld resisted the urge to smack him in the head again. “You could have told me you needed to go sort this out.”

“I didn’t want to burden you with my personal problems.”

“Valentine, you’re such an ass.”

“This is new?”

“Right, then,” Veld said. “So, I have an idea.”

“I’m listening.”

“Why don’t we rent the place together?”

Silence. Blink.

“Think about it, spook! I can swing half the price. Can you?”

“I…could, yes.”

“It’s close to HQ, it’s not too ugly, there’s enough room for the two of us--”

“Veld Dragoon, are you…asking me to move in with you?”

“No! Well, yes. As roommates.”

“I see.”

“Because that’s all I want. Someone to split expenses with.”

“Of course.”

“You pay half, I pay half, and we--” Gods and demons, that was a smirk. A veritable smirk, it was. It vanished as soon as he saw it.

“Don’t get any ideas, Valentine! I don’t care anymore, remember?”

The smirk came back. “I think you do.”

“Oh, really, smart-ass? Why do you think that?”

“Because,” said Valentine, very quietly, “you’ve called me ‘spook’ five times in the last two days.”

“So what?”

And THAT was a blush, an honest-to-god blush on the fine, pale features. “You’ve only ever called me that in bed.”

The skinny bastard was right.

Veld hated it when that happened. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Valentine saved him the trouble.

“Veld,” said Vincent, “could we…start over?”

Veld gawped at him like a landed fish for all of ten seconds. Then he turned to scruffy Tibo, who stood rubbing his hands together like a pantomime villain.

“We’ll take it. Gimme the lease.”

Maybe he was going to regret this. Probably he would, sooner rather than later. His brain was already ticking along, complaining of difficulties. 

But he couldn’t hear a word of it over the singing of his heart.


End file.
